Any Other Way
by ForParadise
Summary: "And I must learn to fly again each day, or die." .. SH: Downpour, Murphy/G. Sewell, coercion, takes place before the events of the game


Warnings: Non-con/coercion, language

One day I'll write something happy. That day is not today.

* * *

-.-.-.-

"You know what I'm offering, Pendleton. Me bringing this to you doesn't come easy - do you know how much shit I could get in?"

George Sewell raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his plush leather chair, feet up on the nicely shellacked oaken desk between them.

Murphy had been led in more than ten minutes previous, dressed in his one piece prison jumpsuit and hands cuffed in front of him. The two had been left alone and Sewell had taken his sweet time to let Murphy in on the offer he was laying on the table. It was something that Sewell had brought up a few times before to Murphy, but almost nonchalantly; in passing. Murphy had never wanted to believe that it may actually be possible.

Pat Napier.

The only thing important to him anymore.

The fact that one person, one man you barely knew, or had never considered even becoming acquainted with - could change your life forever. Could _become_ your life in an instant, and completely against any will of your own. Napier was all Murphy could think about.

Sewell revels in his reaction.

"Hey Scout - you still with me?"

Murphy's eyes move to him, face lowered.

"What.. do you want?" He doesn't know how to read Sewell, or what to think of his constant mocking smile. There was a time at the beginning when Murphy thought Sewell was one of the ones to be trusted. He soon came to realize that everyone who had been stabbed in the back by Sewell had thought that once, to.

Sewell let's out a dramatic sigh and drops his heavy booted feet to the floor. He casually gets up and rounds the desk, smile never leaving his face.

"Come on. Can't a couple of guys down on their luck just do a favor for one another? There has to be demands?" He passes Murphy without looking at him and stops at the large window that graces the front wall of his office - he stares out of it for a moment, and then reaches for the cord and closes the off-white blinds.

Murphy swallows, his mouth feels chalky.

"Well.. what favor did you need?"

Sewell takes a few steps towards the door,

"What do you have to offer?" He asks in return, the lock on the doorknob closing with a soft 'click'.

Murphy unwittingly sighs, too tired for head games. He was too tired for most things these days.

"Listen, Officer Sewell. You know I have nothing. You know I have no outside connections.. no inside ones. I just get by here - day to day. Just let me know what you want, and I'll-"

Sewell turns to him, trademark smile still plastered on his face;

"So, this is an offer you think you'd want to take, right scout?"

Murphy hesitates, but only for a moment;

"You know it is."

Sewell takes a step closer and his eyes rake over Murphy slowly; judgmentally. He's done it before, but it still makes Murphy feel uncomfortable and exposed. And when he puts his hand on the side of Murphy's head, short nails scraping through his hair - Murphy wants to keep his feet planted, keep his chin up. Again - it wasn't new. Sewell was always touchy with him. Simple things - a hand on the back of his neck when leading him down the hall, or firm on his lower back when talking to him out in the yard; always lingering just too long, fingers always moving, feeling. But this time, the air was so still and the room so quiet; Murphy lowers his eyes and his head turns away, unconsciously trying to escape the touch.

Sewell let's out an exasperated sigh.

"Fine. I sign the papers and he's transferred. He'll be under protective custody for the rest of his fat-fuck life, and you'll get paroled and go home to your pathetic, empty existence. He'll continue to live in the same world as us, and breathe the same air as us, and eat the same fucking food as us - and the best part? He'll get to sit there in his little protected cell every goddamn night and whack off to the thought of cute, innocent little boys like your Charlie."

Murphy's head snaps up and he meets Sewell's eyes;

"What the _fuck _do you want from me?"

More firm this time.

Sewell's smile comes back and he seems to calm down. His hand raises again and the look in his eyes is one of challenge; of 'I dare you to pull away'.

Slowly, he runs his fingers through Murphy's shaggy brown hair before letting his hand fall, the back of his fingers brushing against the side of Murphy's neck; he slowly brings his hand around to trace a thumb tenderly over Murphy's bottom lip.

Murphy doesn't break eye-contact, but he can feel his palms sweating, and he notices the motion of Sewell reaching to the front of his slacks and undoing the thick buckle at the front of his equipment belt with his free hand.

Sewell leads him with a firm push back towards the desk and turns them so they trade positions. He leans against the desk and places his belt with gun, nightstick and other equipment carefully on it beside him.

"I need you to convince me that _you_ fulfilling _your_ dream is worth _my_ time and effort..." He's holding onto the desk, and his eyes are unreadable, and cold as a slab of stone.

Murphy watches him, and realizes, with the taste of bile rising at the back of his throat, that his dreams of revenge, torture, and downright indecency towards the disgusting sack of shit known as Pat Napier have greatly outweighed the amount of dreams he's had about having his Charlie back. About holding him, and teaching him, and watching him as he grows and experiences.

About seeing his smile.

The realization brings tears to his eyes as he drops to his knees in front of the officer.

Sewell doesn't make a move, so Murphy raises his cuffed hands, unbuttons the front of the man's pristine pleated police slacks, and carefully pulls down the zipper. His hands hover there for a moment - and he can feel Sewell looking at him, watching his face.

Murphy's eyes are focused on the ground and for a moment the two remain there completely still, until Sewell reaches down to take himself out, reaching forward with his other hand to place, almost delicately, on the side of Murphy's head.

Even as he questions what the fuck he's doing, his mouth slips around the other man's cock.

His head is spinning and it makes him dizzy, but he begins to move his mouth - timidly, eyes closed. He hears Sewell's voice, breathy;

"That's right.. just like that.."

His mind is racing, trying to avoid the situation at hand, and he finds himself thinking of Pat Napier. It doesn't shock him that it comes as almost a comforting thought; his hatred for the man was one of the only certainties in his life. It was a reality he could hold onto, a purpose. He feels his stomach turn when he realizes that, god help him, it's excitement he's feeling. The idea that this offer is on the table, that he may get his hands on Napier - it's what he's wanted. It's all he can ever remember wanting, it seems.

"Damn, boy, you've got a sweet mouth on you..." Sewell's voice is soft, but it cuts into him, and he fights back a gag. Murphy only realizes now that Sewell's hands are tight in his hair, fingers digging into the back of his skull, doing most of the work himself.

Murphy thinks of the other guards outside of the office, of the prisoners out in their cells. If dinner tonight would just be leftovers from what they served the night before in the cafeteria. If they'd be allowed basketball in the yard this week.. or was it next week that was scheduled for?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he registers Sewell's voice - heated, moaning;

"Don't stop, cupcake, you're almost there.."

As if when this was all over, Murphy would have accomplished something; gone somewhere. Like he wouldn't just be sitting there, on the coarse carpet of Sewell's office, a little more pathetic and destitute than when he first walked in.

Sewell comes into his mouth with a violent thrust, fingers digging painfully into his scalp as Murphy tries to wrench away. Sewell let's him pull his mouth back, but holds him so that he finishes onto Murphy's hair and neck.

He keeps his hand on the clean side of Murphy's head for a moment as he slows his breathing; and Murphy keeps his face down, trying to calm his body. He eyes the wastepaper basket only a few feet away, but quickly decides against it, fearful of how Sewell would react if he were to retch in his office.

Finally Sewell pulls away and heads around to the other side of his desk, straightening his clothes and getting himself back in order.

Sewell allows him to use the small washroom in his office to clean up. Murphy splashes some water on his face, rinses his mouth, and wipes his hair. He does not look at himself in the mirror before he walks out.

He steps back into the office and Sewell is in his chair once again, leaning back, hands folded casually on his lap. He smiles.

"If you head out an officer will be waiting at the end of the hall to bring you back to your cell."

Murphy keeps his head down and nods, thankful that for once Sewell isn't feeling chatty, and walks to the door. He reaches for the lock, and Sewell's voice grates through him from across the desk like something tangible;

"We'll discuss your next favor at a later date."

Murphy stands still, hands on the door lock, not quite registering the words or idea.

"I told you, the strings I have to pull to get you this opportunity... it's not simple. It's a pretty big deal."

He forces his hands steady as he unlocks the door, turns the handle, and walks out.

-.-.-.-

An officer leads him back to his cell, and for the first time Murphy barely registers the cat-calls and insults being tossed at him from the other prisoners on both sides as he walks down the long hallway.

The officer let's him in to his cell and unhandcuffs him through the bars with a gentle pat on the shoulder before walking away. Murphy doesn't acknowledge him, or anything else as he distantly looks around the small 6x9 cell that has become so familiar to him it seems to be the only home he can ever remember having.

He eyes the papers he has haphazardly taped across his walls, and stops on Charlie's hand-painted drawing - the only thing he has left of him - bright and cheery, next to his bed. With it he sees Charlie's youthful face smiling up at him, admiration shining in those big brown eyes - and he falls to his knees and vomits, entire body heaving, into the cold, small metal toilet in the corner of his cell.

* * *

Quote in description from a poem by prison author Jimmy Santiago Baca.

Thanks for reading :)


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